In The Land Of Make Me Crazy
by KKBELVIS
Summary: The boys are on another hunt. Place setting - a haunted taxidermy shop. Protective Dean. Some hurt Sam. Frustrated, teddy bear, Bobby. Mix with humor. Serve up on a stick. Time set - early season two.
1. Chapter 1

IN THE LAND OF MAKE ME CRAZY

By: Karen B.

Summary: The boys are on another hunt. Place setting - a haunted taxidermy shop. Protective Dean. Some hurt Sam. Frustrated, teddy bear, Bobby. Mix with humor. Serve up on a stick. Time set - early season two.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Happy Birthday to my friends: Marianna and PHX…I hope you like. Wish well! Dream better.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The marble-gray clouds hung low in the early morning sky, leftovers of a late Fall downpour that had collected in lake-sized puddles all over the ground. Rainwater dripped off pale-yellow leaves, smelly garbage cans and overflowed out of the rusty, busted-up spouts of the gutters hanging off the rest station's bathroom facilities.

Sam walked across the parking lot, not bothering to avoid stomping into the rain puddles as he splashed his way toward the rundown structure. The john, looked more like a house made out of sticks that would fall over at the slightest huff or puff.

They'd stopped at a lot of crap rest areas in their day, but this had to be one of the worst. Probably built in the early 50's, never updated, and barely maintained. An old, stone water fountain was full of leaves and bone dry, the parking lot pitted with holes, the building too. Every inch of the building's outer walls was paint-blasted with colored graffiti. And not the innocent - for a good time call - kind of graffiti either.

Twenty-four years of intense training, made Sam observant. Always on alert. That was the first lesson his father pounded into his young head about the job. How dangerous it was. How on the ball one had to be.

Being a hunter made Sam view the world around him differently. Subtle movements were scrutinized. The slightest sound, caused him to deftly ease a hand behind his back, reaching up under his shirt to grip the firearm he almost always kept there.

Even now, just a simple light breeze blowing through the clumps of old growth birch trees brought his head up. Sam cast a suspicious eye upon the area. At any moment the trees could come to life, or some ghostly element, foe or fairy could leap down from a branch. Step out from its hiding place inside the trunk of the chalky-white, chipping bark. Or worse, rise up right out of the ground from hell.

As a hunter, Sam was trained not to ever be caught off guard. Being caught with your pants down around your ankles brought on more than red-faced embarrassment - it brought on deadly consequences.

The wind picked up and Sam shivered, even though the breeze wasn't that cold. Just a month ago their dad had died. Not because he'd let his guard down, but for much bigger reasons Sam or Dean had yet to understand. His father was a good hunter, the best. He was a good father, had done his best. Sam was heartbroken. All the years of bucking, fighting and rebelling against the life, and John Winchester's heavy hand, seemed so trivial now. There were so many things Sam wanted to tell his dad, makeup for - but now - he never could.

Hearing a muffled thunk, thunk, Sam froze in a trance-like state. Ready and rigid. Eyes only, searching the area. His gaze darted this way and that. Not a soul in sight. Just a few wet-tailed red squirrels chasing one another round the base of a paper-peeling birch.

Not far away, Sam spied the source of his concern. Through the large paned, dirty glass of a separate rundown structure a group of vending machines were under heavy attack.

Sam relaxed and smiled at a very frustrated, kicking, punching, swearing Dean. Nothing got between his brother and food.

Forgoing his trip to the pisser, Sam softly plodded through the overgrown, soggy grass and entered the small building. At the end of the lineup of vending machines stood Dean, nose nearly pressed to the glass and breathing heavy as he examined the contents.

"What you doing?" Sam asked, glancing sideways at the other machines as he past by, noting they were full of nothing but spiders, webs and dead flies.

"What's it look like?" Dean's stomach grumbled loudly. "Trying to get something to eat." He started to kick the crap out of the machine once more.

Sam stepped up behind Dean and peered over his shoulder through the glass and into the machine. One Twix bar, two packs of Big Red gum, three small bags of Frito Lays and a lone bag of Peanut M&M's - Dean's favorite - set amongst more spider webs full of dead insects. "Dean, this thing looks like it's been around since the turn of the century, man. You sure you want to eat any of that?"

Dean's only response was a lion-hearted growl, "Son of a bitch." He started kicking the crap out of the machine, again, with all the finesse of a crazy person.

The loss of their father was burning a pathway through both their souls. Both boys on edge. Misdirecting their anger and chomping at the bit to find answers.

Sam winced as the machine teetered one way then the other, threatening to tip over and take the whole row down like giant stack of dominions.

"Dude, try this." Sam dug into his pocket. Finding some change, he held out the coins nestled in his palm.

Dean didn't bother to look at what his brother was offering. "Negative. Friggin' machine stole two bucks in quarters from me already." Dean licked his lips and squatted down, cramming an arm up to his elbow inside the machine.

He grunted and groaned stretching as far as he could, fingers wiggling around, desperate to snatch anything he could.

"Dean…"

"Shut up and go away if you don't want to watch this, Sam."

Sam bit his lip. Shoving the coins back in his pocket, he turned and left the building not looking back when he heard the shatter of glass. Sam quickened his steps, plunking himself down on a teetering picnic table. He rested his feet on the bench seat. Staring down at a set of initials carved into the rotting wood, he wondered if S.C. was still alive, and if he or she was, did they have a happy, normal life.

Sam wanted to talk about dad, but Dean wouldn't have that. His brother kept his fire-breathing pain silent. Locked every piece of himself inside a glass dome. Dean was like a broken gumball machine, but Sam could see right through his brother. All Dean's guilt and anger, fear, sorrow - right there - bright and colorful.

Sam wanted to grab Dean by the shoulders and shake the emotion right out of him - a few times he had. But Dean wouldn't shatter. All Sam could do was keep inserting his dime. Twisting Dean's knobs and trying to get to his older brother to talk. But the more Sam twisted, the more Dean resisted and lashed out at him. Sooner or later, Dean would bust. His thin glass would crack, and every colorful gumball would spill out - kerplunk and scatter - rolling every which way. Sam only hoped when that happened, he was there to gather them all up and put his brother back together again.

Dean dropped down next to Sam and tore open an M&M's bag with great satisfaction. He dumped out a handful of the hard-candy shelled peanuts, popping them - all at the same time - into his mouth.

"Wa' schum?" Dean mumbled around a gooey gob of rainbow colored, melted chocolate while offering what was left in the bag to Sam.

"No." Sam shook his head. "Thanks," he said, totally amused. Watching Dean shove food into his stomach was always entertaining - even in the worst of times. "Guess you won the war."

"Yep." Dean finished off the bag, stuffing the crinkled yellow wrapper into his jacket pocket.

Several fat raindrops splashed off the overhanging foliage, landing on Sam's face. He cleared his throat. A nervous tick, quickly swiping the rolling water away incase they might be the real deal. He'd shed enough tears in private having not taken the loss of his father well. Didn't need Dean teasing him or getting mad over his emotional self. Truth was, though, neither one of them was dealing well and Sam just needed to talk to someone.

_No, not someone. Dean. He just needed to talk to Dean. _Sam sighed, staring with watery eyes at his boots.

"What's with you?" Dean asked.

They looked at each other.

"Er…I -I'm just you know..."

"Sam," Dean warned.

Sam ducked his head hiding behind his bangs, trying to avoid looking at Dean's pissed-off face. Damn it, he was always slipping up, desperate to rip down the 'no little brother's allowed' sign blinking neon-red over Dean's head

"Just not into M&M's," Sam said, quick-save. "Think you could jack me a bag of Fritos?"

"Uh-huh," Dean muttered, disbelievingly. "So, you don't want to talk?" Dean challenged. "About anything."

Sure Sam wanted to talk. About a million different things that spun and spiraled, exploding in a trillion different directions. But the last time Sam tried to talk, Dean turned a crowbar into a wrecking ball and the Impala paid the price.

"Sammy," Dean pushed.

"No. Yes. No." Sam drew in a aggravated breath. "I don't know."

Dean reached into his jacket pocket. "Once upon a time in the land of make me crazy," he tossed Sam a bag of Fritos, "Princess Sam's awesomely, cool older brother came through for him….again. Right, Sammy?"

"Right, Dean," Sam whispered sadly, staring at the unopened bag.

"Look, pal," Dean said softly, "Maybe I've been too…" Whatever big brother was about to say was interrupted by his cell phone going off. Dean retrieved his flip-phone and opened it. "It's Bobby," he whispered and elbowed Sam in the ribs. "Bro watch this." Dean gave Sam his 'mischievous kid' look.

"Don't," Sam ordered firmly, knowing what his brother was about to do.

"City morgue," Dean answered, holding back a giggle and winking at Sam. "You kill'em we chill'em," he said in a rush, then quickly hung up.

"Messing with Bobby," Sam grouched. "Not cool, dude."

As expected, the cell rang back immediately.

Dean answered, "Your call did not go through. Please hang up and try again." He disconnected the line, choking on his own laughter.

Sam scooted a few inches away from his brother. There was such a thing as being guilty by association.

The phone rang again, sounding very angry, if that was possible.

"You are soooo going to geeeet it." Sam opened his bag of Fritos and started munching.

"Hello," Dean stifled a laugh, "Is Bobby there?" He smiled widely nodding at Sam, barely holding back his laughter. "I know you called me, and I want to know if Bobby's there?"

"Owe!" Dean winced, quickly withdrawing the phone away from his ear. "That hurt." He stared at the receiver as a sequence of swear words - he'd never heard before - spilled out.

"This is Bobby, you igit," Bobby yelled loud enough for the man in the moon to hear. "You hang up on me again, boy…I…errr…. I'll string you up in the tool shed for a week."

Dean swallowed hard at the image. Wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten strung up in the tool shed.

"Now let me talk to Sam," Bobby lowered his tone a notch.

"He wants you." Dean held the phone stiffly out to his brother.

Sam shook his head no, looking a little bit - a lot of bit scared. "No," Sam voiced out loud, shoving the phone back toward Dean.

"Talk to him," Dean insisted in all seriousness.

"You talk to him, Dean," Sam whined.

"He asked for you." Dean thrust the phone two inches from Sam's face.

"Man." Sam drew back. "You started it. Don't get me involved."

"Sam," Bobby's voice boomed threateningly.

"Here. Take it." Dean jammed the phone against Sam's ear.

Sam batted the phone away. "I don't want to take it, dude. You take it."

"Samuel Bartholomew Winchester," Bobby bellowed through the phone. "You answer me. Right now!"

Dean poked his tongue out at Sam.

Sam rolled his eyes, reluctantly taking the phone. "Hey, Bobby," he uttered sheepishly and listened for a few minutes. "Okay. Sounds good. Yes, sir. No, sir. Right away. I will. Hard, yes. You too. Bye," Sam said, flipping the phone shut.

"What'd…what'd he say?" Dean asked nervously.

"He has a job for us." Sam handed Dean back his phone. "Let's go."

Dean gave a sigh of relief, hopping down off the picnic table and dusting off his ass as he headed back toward the Impala. "So, what's the job?"

Sam came up behind Dean and whacked him across his head with his hand - extra hard.

"Ouch," Dean hissed. "Son of a bitch!" He whirled around, rubbing the back of his head.

Sam grinned wildly.

"Bitch," Dean growled. "What was that for?"

"Bobby says he still owes you, and I'll explain about the job on the way…after I take a leak…" Sam paused. "And I really wish you'd stop calling me the B-word." A beat. "Jeeerrrk," he chuckled, pitching his empty Frito bag in a trashcan and heading back toward the John.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

It was after midnight by the time they reached their destination. Dean stood behind Sam on the back porch of Pickle Bill's log-cabin-styled taxidermist shop.

"Hurry up," Dean said, suspiciously shining his flashlight into the thick wooded area surrounding the building and seeing nothing; just the warm late August summer wind blowing through the tall, old trees. "You'd think you never picked a lock before." He turned back to Sam and gave him a shoulder nudge using the duffle bag that was slung over his shouler. "Come on, man."

"Stop it, Dean. I'm going as fast as I can." Sam tinkered a little faster. "Give me some light," he demanded irritably.

Dean shined the small white circle back onto the lock Sam was working.

There came a chattering noise and Dean whirled around. "Sam, natives are getting restless." Dean shined the light, flashing the beam out toward the forest.

"What's with you?" Sam asked, still working the lock.

Something was lurking in the shadows. Dean opened the weapons bag and dug around. Flashlight in one hand, sawed-off in the other, he drew a skillful bead on a fat, furry shadow. Quickly realizing the raccoon was of no threat, Dean huffed out a breath and lowered the weapon allowing the critter to scurry away into the darkness. Salt wouldn't have done it any harm anyway.

Dean turned back to Sam. "I don't like the neighborhood. Will you come on." Dean stepped closer, bending down low over Sam's shoulder. "What? They didn't offer lock picking 101 in college?"

"Tricky tumbler. Not one of your more common locks." Sam dropped an ear closer to the knob, concentrating as he picked.

"Use your hairpin, Frances."

Sam ignored Dean, staying on task.

Dean tapped an impatient foot, the flashlight beam dancing in time, swaying this way and that. "What's with you, Sam?"

Sam froze, staring at the lock he'd been meddling with. "For one thing, Dean… you dancing like a circus bear. Can you please hold the light steady," Sam said with false politeness. "What'd you see, anyway, that's got you all hyped-up?" Sam asked.

"Renegade raccoon," Dean deadpanned, shifting from foot-to-foot. "By the time you pick that lock, Sam, we'll both be retired or dea…"

**Click.**

Sam peered up at Dean.

Dean smiled. "Music to my ears."

"Happy now?"

"A treasure trove of delightfulness," Dean uttered.

Sam rolled his eyes and stood.

"That eye roll thing you do is getting old." Dean brushed past Sam, indignantly.

Sam tsked, drawing his weapon from behind his back, choosing real bullets since they weren't sure what they were dealing with.

Taking the lead, Dean poked the door open with the muzzle of his gun. Sam right behind as they both stepped inside.

They paused a moment.

The shop was quiet. Dimly lit by a few security lights and red-lettered exit signs. The air inside was thick and hot and they were not alone - real-to-life eyes staring straight at them.

"Huh." Dean shivered, allowing his flashlight to bebop around the room.

Heads and full-bodied animals were mounted on wooden plaques, hanging from every wall and posed on wooden stands throughout the cabin. It was a large, impressive collection. Beaver, turkey, waterfowl, fish, deer, bear, mountain lion, zebra, bobcat, buffalo. Even a tiny, white ferret whose eyes glowed hot-pink when Dean's flashlight beam passed over them.

"That's just creepy weird," Dean murmured.

"It's a taxidermist shop," Sam drawled. "Lions, tigers, bears. What'd you expect?"

"Oh, I don't know." Dean's gaze met Sam's and he waggled both brows seductively. "Panties, bras, panties," he chuckled.

Sam huffed a strand of hair out of his eyes.

"Just sayin'" Dean titled his head.

"Don't."

"Feel like a piece of meat on a plate." Dean shined his light on a very large grizzly bear standing eight-feet tall on its hind legs, teeth gleaming wet. "Stuffed teddy bears I get. Stuffed death? You ever watch Animal Planet, Sam? Lions, tigers and bears tearing open the poor little baby deer? Blood and guts and…" Dean shook his head. "You'll never look at a mound of spaghetti the same again."

"They're supposed to look real. It's an art form," Sam explained, raising his gun - at the ready.

"Don't let Betty White hear you say that," Dean said, stepping up to a shelf and peering long and hard at a large, hairy black spider. "Hey, Sammy, get a load of this." Dean reached out to pet the eight-legged creature.

"'Eh, Dean I don't think that's…"

"Shit!" Dean screeched like a girl when the spider jumped onto his arm.

"Fake," Sam finished, watching Dean wave his arm up and down until the spider flipped to the floor and scurried away.

Dean turned to see Sam with a big, sloppy grin on his face.

"You laugh one time." Dean raised a warning finger.

Sam strutted past Dean, keeping his head down and using long strides, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"So, tell me why we're here again?" Dean grouched in annoyance, following close behind and trying to get the hairs on the back of his neck to lay flat. _He hated spiders about as much as he hated rats._

"Reports of odd noises that sound like a bunch of wild animals," Sam duly said. "Strange shadows scurrying up and down the aisles. Lights flickering, things being knocked over, chattering sounds."

"So," Dean mumbled. "Chip and Dale didn't cross over into the light."

"Come on, Dean." Sam passed a mongoose devouring a rattlesnake. The piece made his skin crawl and he quickly double checked that his gun was locked and loaded. "We've had this situation before. Bobby asked for our help. So we…"

"Suck it up and check it out." Dean cocked his sawed-off, following right behind Sam.

"Besides." Sam stopped and bent to stare suspiciously at a preserved body of a rabbit sporting antlers "Really." He titled his head inquiringly.

"Jackalope," Dean identified the animal. "Plenty of American folklore on the rascally wabbit," he lisped, doing his best Elmer Fudd impersonation. "Should burn it," he said in normal Dean speak, striding away abruptly.

"Dean." Sam quickly caught up and they walked side-by-side down another aisle. "No such thing. They're just rabbits infected with the shope papilloma virus. The disease causes horn and antler-like tumors to grow on the rabbit's head and body. Thus the Jackalope got its name."

Discovery channel much?" Dean shucked the weapon's bag higher up on his shoulder.

Sam huffed. "Bobby also said, over the last six months two neighborhood dogs and four cats were found mauled to death out back. And the manager, Bobby's friend Orville, quit a week ago. Swears one night when he was locking up the statue of that grizzly back there came to life and pinned him to the floor. Winnie tried to take a chunk out of his arm, but he got away. No one believed him, of course, and there was never any evidence of a break in, human, animal or otherwise."

"Yeah, well we'll burn the grizzly too."

"Dude, curb your pyromania. We can't burn everything in this place."

"Fine, Sammy, just be careful where you step. You know what they say about bears and shit," Dean chuckled rounding a glass display case and stopping to look inside. He shined the flashlight through the top of the glass down inside. "Huh."

"What? You find your panties, bras and panties?" Sam snickered.

"Unfortunately no, but I think this might be our problem."

"That was fast." Sam stepped up next to Dean and peered into the case.

"It's not Zales," Dean announced, dully.

"Or Tiffany's." Sam cocked his head curiously.

The case held an array of old lady memorabilia. Pearly stick pins, size six alligator heels and matching purse, a fur faux, black rhinestone beaded hand gloves and straw garden hat to name a few.

Sam bent down to examine the bottom shelf. A collection of newspaper clippings, pictures of a woman, standing next to a short, beer-bellied man. Below the picture were their names. Bill Pickle and his mother Martha. There were other Black and white and Polaroid photos all ranging in age from infancy to old and gray, but clearly the same woman. The last clipping was an obit. Martha had died just a month ago.

"According to these old clippings, Pickle Bill was her only son. Guy must of loved her so much he made a shrine in her honor."

Sam stared at the last picture that she appeared in. She wore a green flowered housecoat, straw garden hat and a pair of shiny, black penny loafers.

Sam straightened. "So, what? Grandma's spirit is haunting her son's shop? Animating the different animals. But why?"

"Don't know. Don't care." Dean shrugged. "I say, burn baby burn. Then we head out and find us a bar. One without animal heads and stuffed body parts."

Sam turned his mouth down and shrugged. Sammy speak for 'guess so.' He moved behind the counter and went to slide the case door open, rattling it a few times. "Locked," he announced drawing his picklock set once again and kneeling down to get to work.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Dean taunted. "Have I taught you nothing?" Dean fluently flipped his sawed-off around using the butt end to smash the top glass.

"Dean," Sam scolded. Huffing madly, Sam stood shoving his lock pick back into his pocket.

"Haste makes waste, bro." Dean winked. "Not turning gray waiting for you to pick another lock." Still using the gun, Dean cleared away the jagged edges. "Probably the braided hair the old gal's attached to, but we burn it all to be safe," he said gathering the granny items.

Sam agreed, finding an old, steel washtub at the back of the store. It didn't take them long. Like a couple of professional jewel thieves on a time clock, they emptied out the glass case.

"Smells like mothballs, man," Dean said, a cloud of cold fog suddenly spilling out his mouth. "Son of a bitch." Dean raised his sawed-off. "Sam. Hurry. Company's coming."

Sam picked up pace, tossing the rest of the old-lady items into the washtub.

The frosty fog continued to fill the room. Another low and devilish snarl was followed by the click, click of what sounded like nails crossing over the wooden floor.

"Bear?" Dean's voice quivered, eyes darting this way and that.

Through the haze, Sam spied the bear. Still petrified and glassy-eyed like the stuffed statue it was. "Not the bear," he breathed, whirling around when he heard more scratching noises from behind. "Mountain lion?"

Dean squinted, gesturing with his sawed-off to the left. "Not him, either."

"Then who?" Sam questioned, pulling a small bottle of lighter fluid from his pocket. Flipping the lid, he squirted a stream of liquid generously over the items in the tub.

"Doesn't matter." Dean thumbed the wheel of his Zippo, lit the old ladies braided hair and tossed it onto the pile of other items. "Grandma won't have time to possess the reindeer that ran her over," he said seriously.

Fire crackled. Streaks of black smoke rising upward, the smell of old lady and melting mothballs permeating the air.

The clicking stopped; only the sound of their own boots shifting and grinding chunks of glass into the cracks of the cabin's floorboards was heard.

A second ticked by. Two. Three. Didn't take long for the fire to turn everything in the washtub into ash.

"Grandma's fallen and she's not getting up this time," Dean cackled. Directly behind them came a deep, rumbling growl. Dean glanced over at Sam. "Bro, was that your stomach?"

Sam gave a small shake of his head. _No._

"Normally the ghost goes bye-bye now," Dean said in a shocked tone.

"When is anything ever normal, Dean?"

"Well, there was that one time…"

Another low growl, closer.

Both men spun on their heels to see a show of teeth, horns and a fuzzy white cotton tail.

"Jackalope," they yelled simultaneously.

The Jackalope seemed to almost smile at them, then lunged.

"Dean watch out." Quick as lightning, Sam shoved Dean out of the way, sending his brother reeling to the floor.

The Jackalope came at him instead. Sam shot at the crazed animal, real bullets doing nothing to stop the creature. Before he could tuck and roll over to Dean and the weapons bag, something pointy and sharp caught him in the shoulder.

"Ah," Sam cried. His gun sailing one way - Sam the other. He hit the floor hard - eyeballs rolling in their sockets like snake eyes.

"Sammy!"

"Uh," Sam panted, face twisting in pain as he sat half-way up, trying to hold the agitated Jackalope at bay. The possessed animal only doubled its attack efforts, clawing at his chest. "Get it off me. Dean! Uuuggghhh!"

Dean was up and sliding across the uneven glass-covered floor. With one hand, he scuffed the neck of the fury intruder camped out on his brother's chest.

"Pull," Dean shouted flinging the critter up toward the cabin's beamed ceiling, taking aim and blasting its ass with salt rounds.

Direct hit.

_He always was good at Skeet shooting_.

The Jackalope flipped in mid-air, then promptly fell to the floor with a solid thunk - stiff as the day it was stuffed. Scrapes of fluffy Jackalope fur floated down to stick in Sam's.

"Holy crap." Sam flopped back, breathing heavily, arms spread wide on the floor.

"Dude." Dean knelt by his side, setting the sawed-off close by. "Don't ever push me like that again, you hear me?"

Stunned, Sam didn't answer.

"Hey. Come on." Dean patted Sam's cheek. "How you doing?"

Sam groaned.

"I'm not kidding. Sam. Talk to me."

"'Eh, ouch," Sam took in a few deep breaths, wincing.

Dean grimaced. "Why aren't we out of the woods? We burned Grandma's attic." Dean bent low over Sam trying to see better in the dim lighting. "You alive down there?"

"Alive. Barely," Sam huffed in annoyance. "Undamaged? No. Out of the woods. Not yet," Sam whimpered. "Ah, my shoulder."

"Hold still. Let me see what's up." Deft fingers gently pulled Sam's jacket back. His shirt was shredded, and Dean could see the scratch marks zigzagging across his brother's chest and his upper right shoulder was doing a slow bleed.

Sam breathed raggedly in and out through his nose.

Dean tenderly pressed around the hole, examining.

"Uhnnnnuh," Sam clenched his fists unconsciously.

"Easy," Dean muttered.

"How…how's it look?" Sam stuttered.

Like magic, Dean had a square white piece of gauze in his hand, pressing the material to Sam's shoulder. "Want it sugarcoated?"

"Straight up," Sam gritted out his teeth, squirming a little under the pressure.

Dean lifted the gauze pad to take a look. "Can't stitch it. Puncture wound. About the size of a quarter. Probably from the fugly bitches' horn." He pressed the padding back down hard, keeping pressure. "Bleeding pretty good. Going to have a nice shade of black and blue bruising all around." Dean slipped a hand underneath Sam's neck and brought him up to sitting.

"Hurts like hell." Sam winced at the rocket-hot burning that radiated through his shoulder and down his right arm.

Dean leaned over to peer at Sam's back. "Didn't go all the way through." He sat back on his heels. "But the area's swelling up already. You think it hurts bad now, man. Wait."

"Thought you were going to sugarcoat it," Sam drawled.

"That was." Dean pulled a longer piece of gauze wrap out of thin air. "If I wasn't going to sugarcoat it… I'd tell you how you could have an allergic reaction to that fur ball. Horns could have shot some kind of poisonous venom into your bloodstream. Your insides could boil over and burst out your ears." Dean tied the wrap firmly around the wound, holding the gauze pad in place. The action produced a small cry from Sam. "Or you could break out in hives. Stop breathing." Dean took Sam by his good arm and got him standing.

Sam tottered dizzily.

"Might even start spitting out little baby Sammy Jackalopes'." Dean shrugged, holding Sam upright. "Or you could shit Mothballs for the rest of your life."

"Okay, all right, all right, so it was a little sugarcoated," Sam deadpanned, closing his eyes a second to gain his equilibrium."'Er….thanks for that, Dean." Sam opened his eyes.

"Anytime, Sammy boy." Dean let go his hold of Sam's arm. "So, guess we can obviously scratch Whistler's Mother off the list."

"Guess so." Sam spied his gun butted up against the feet of a beaver. "What now?" He cautiously stepped over and bent down, keeping his eyes on the rodent's three-inch long teeth - quickly snagging his gun and backing away with a sigh of relief when the thing didn't come to life.

"You feeling okay?" Dean asked worriedly, handing Sam his salt gun.

"Um, no," Sam said, shoving his handgun into his waist band. "Got stabbed in the shoulder, Dean. Sore as hell."

"Long as you don't feel anything creepy itching under your skin."

"Nothing like that. Just your usual boring things. Hot, burning, poker-like pain, blood seeping down my chest."

Dean nodded, satisfied for the moment. "So, we're not setting this whole place on fire, and we didn't bring enough shock collars for all these animals. What next?" Dean asked sarcastically

Sam pointed toward an open door and a set of stairs leading downward. "Let's check out the basement."

"Right. Because evil shenanigans always happen in the creepy basement," Dean muttered, making sure he was the first to head down the cement staircase. "Good times," he drawled.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

The basement was large, cold and damp. Lit by security lights that made everything glow electric blue adding to the damp cold feel. Sealed cardboard boxes lined the walls along with shelves and shelves of supplies. Tools of the taxidermist trade. Sharp knives. Hack saws. Brushes. Paint. Clay. Plaster. Bones. Glass eyes. Tanned skin. Wire. Cloth. Cotton. Cans and jars of curing agents. And an array of animal heads and bodies already stuffed and drying.

There was an open door to the right. Sam stepped over and peeked inside.

"Anything?" Dean asked, poking around the boxes.

"Doesn't look like much. Broom closet of an office." Sam went inside and started to rummage around.

Finding nothing among the boxes of interest, Dean stepped up to peer into the dead eyes of a life-like animal that looked to be part beaver, part duck. "Some jungle, man. They got everything in this joint, but Cookie Monster and Oscar." Dean poked his finger in the creepy looking beaver/duck's bill. "What the hell?"

"It's a platypus, Dean," Sam said standing in the office doorway. "They're mammals. The only mammal that lays eggs instead of giving live birth."

"Ew! Don't say live birth." Dean practically gagged, moving along. "And this." He stopped in front of a dog-like animal sporting stripes. "And this. This is a hoax for sure, like that damn Jackalope."

"Wow," Sam said, with awe in his voice, heading over to inspect the creature further.

"Wow?" Dean queried. "Don't tell me this thing's real?"

"Was real. Thylacine. Commonly known as the Tasmanian tiger. Native to Australia. They're extinct. The last known Thylacine died in 1936 - caged in a zoo." Sam shook his head sadly.

"You….are… amazing," Dean sneered. "Dude. Is there anything you don't know?"

Sam walked across the room and stopped in front of a large steel locker. "Don't know what's in here." He swiped a few drops of perspiration off his forehead.

Dean came to stand next to Sam and frowned. "You sure you're okay. You're looking feverish."

"I'm good."

A rattling sound came from the inside of the locker.

Both men took a large, slow step backward.

"Ten bucks says it's a rattlesnake," Dean guessed.

Sam cocked his head. "I'll take that bet." He raised his gun, drawing the hammer back.

"Here we go again." Dean raised his weapon as well. "Ready?" He lifted a leg.

"Set, go," Sam belted out.

With an extra hard boot-kick to the side of the cabinet, Dean sent the locker tipping over and crashing onto its side.

The locker door immediately jarred open and out fell…

TBC….

AN: Marianna's Birthday is Friday, so I thought it best to split the story in half. The conclusion will post tomorrow.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/


	2. Conclusion

IN THE LAND OF MAKE ME CRAZY

By: Karen B.

Previously: The door immediately jarred open and out fell…

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

"Holy shit," Sam and Dean said in unison jumping back out of the way.

An old lady crashed to the floor, motionless. She had pouty red lips and was wearing penny loafers, a flowered green housecoat a straw garden hat and smelled like mothballs.

"Well, lookie here. Please tell me that's a hoax, Mr. Know It All." Dean used the toe of his boot - testing - giving grandma's penny loafers a little nudge.

"Dean, that's the same lady from the pictures upstairs."

"Pickle Bill really pickled his mother? Or is she plastic?" Dean snarked sarcastically. "Either way why keep her very well in her metal pumpkin shell?" Dean swallowed down hard. "That's just sick, man. Like…blow-up doll, sick. Why the hell do we always get the round pegged, square holed crazies?"

Sam squatted down next to the old woman and reached out a hand to touch her cheek. "Not so plastic." He looked seriously up at Dean. "She's been stuffed."

"Ewe," Dean gagged. "How could you empty out your own mother's organs, blood, guts, woman parts and stuff her with preservatives."

"We better…" Before Sam could finish, grandma 'not so plastic' sat bolt up, grabbed hold of Sam by the arm and threw him across the room like he was a paper doll.

"Ah." Sam crashed into a stack of cardboard boxes that came down around his ears.

"Sam!"

Grandma was quick. Barreling across the room. Sam was on his back trying to get up when she slammed into him like a linebacker sending them both through the open office door.

Dean would have thought it comical, a ninety-two year old lady kicking Sam's ass - except this old lady had the strength of twenty men - and all twenty men were whaling on his brother's face

"No, no, no!" Dean bellowed his alarm. Sawed-off locked and loaded, he bolted toward the room. "Shit." He slid to an abrupt stop when a chattering, renegade squirrel leapt off its wooden stand to block his path, bushy bristled tail flicking back and forth angrily. Damn thing stared him down like a gunfighter itching to put someone in the dirt, small menacing eyes never leaving his. _Crap, in the world of make me crazy granny could posses more than one thing at a time. Figures._ Dean rolled his eyes. "Out of my way, you filthy animal." He went to kick the squirrel, when the chatterbox leapt off the floor and bit into his left thumb, stubbornly hanging there.

The squealing squirrel muffled Dean's cursing and Sam's grunts of pain coming from the office. Dean flicked his thumb wildly. Dancing in circles. Desperate to evict the rodent's long teeth from his flesh. One more good shake of his arm and the animal was sent reeling to the other side of the room and fell to the ground, stiff and dead - as it should be.

Thumb dripping blood, Dean quickly recovered. Squirrel damage was nothing compared to the damage his brother was going through. Sam and grandma still rocking, rolling and slamming into one office wall after another.

Sawed-off in hand, Dean raced toward the office.

A gunshot splintering the air brought Dean up fast and short.

"Fudging hell!" Dean skidded to a halt, whipping around to see a stout, beer-bellied man wearing a wool cap standing only three feet from him.

"Drop your gun," the man ordered in a gritty voice, lowering his rifle that was pointed at the ceiling and aiming the muzzle at Dean's chest.

Dean hesitated, recognizing the man as the owner Pickle Bill. He gave a sidelong look through the office door, not seeing Sam, but hearing his brother's painful grunts and groans

"Drop it or I shoot, you cotton pickin' thief."

"Didn't see any cotton, and I'm no thief." Dean's trigger finger itched, but no matter how badly Dean wanted to pull - cold steel trumped sodium chloride every time.

"A funny thief," Bill drawled out, unimpressed. "We'll see how much your ass is laughing when I haul it down to the sheriff's station." Bill eyeballed Dean fiercely. "The bag too, drop them both now," he ordered, waving his gun threateningly.

"Shit." Dean stomped his foot in frustration. Slowly - eyes all the while on the man before him - Dean bent down to set the gun by his feet and let the duffle fall off his shoulder thumping to the floor.

"Look," Dean started, cringing when he heard a loud crash come from the other room. "I said, I'm no thief. You got a real problem here.""Looks more like you're the one with the problem, kid." Bill lifted an eyebrow. "Tell your buddy to stop trashing my office and get his no good thieving ass out here."

"Sammy," Dean called out, worry twisting through his gut when the rumble in the office had turned silent.

"You come on out of there, boy," Bill directed toward the office, keeping his aim on Dean. "Or I shoot your partner here."

No response.

"Fine, then." Bill moved sideways in quick strides toward the office, suddenly slowed, then stopped cold all together.

Stuffed grandma stood in the office doorway, staring at Bill. Smiling eyes soft and caring and looking at Bill the only way a mother could. "What the shit?" Bill screeched.

"Told you," Dean replied sharply. "You got bigger problems," he said, wishing he could get to Sam, but Bills gun was still pointed at his chest. The guy's trigger finger trembling against the hammer.

"Mom?" Bill started to shake, looking like he was on the verge of passing out. "This can't be real," he muttered, breath surging in and out his open mouth. "That's. Oh, my, God," his voice trembled. "Th-that's impossible."

"Believe me it's not," Dean told him. "Now put your gun down and back away."

Ignoring the warning, Bill took three steps forward, toward his mother. "Mom?" His eyes were on his mother, gun still pointed at Dean, finger still twitching against the trigger. "I…she…how can she be alive?"

"Bill." Dean cringed, guy was loosing it. "Relax. Easy. She's not alive. You stuffed her didn't you? Like you did to all the animals in this place."

"It's…yes." Bill held tighter to the rifle.

Grandma's smile faded and her eyes took on a dark hard glare, moving quick and in an unnatural way to stand before Bill.

"What the shit," Bill whispered, lowering his weapon.

"I know. It's not normal, right." Dean kept his voice calm, slowly reaching down toward his sawed-off. "She…your mother, is a disturbed spirit. A ghost."

"Ghost?" Bill frowned.

"A seriously pissed-off ghost." Sam appeared, just inside the office doorway, frazzled, a dark blue ring forming around his left eye and looking like he was having a bad hair day.

Dean's gaze slid over and made contact. "Sam?"

"I'm good," Sam croaked, tapping a flattened hand against his jacket pocket.

Dean understood the unspoken gesture right away. "Bill," he reached into his own pocket, "You need to get away from her. Right now."

Grandma and Bill continued to stand stock-still before one another, mesmerized, tense and edgy.

"I…I preserved her be-because…she…I," Bill stammered, not taking his eyes off the old gal. "I didn't …I didn't want her…I didn't want you cremated or lying in a box," he told his mother."

The old lady cocked her head toward Bill, frowning.

"I don't think mommy dearest is too happy about that, Billy," Dean said snidely. "Let's skip the mommy's boy thing. Step away from her," Dean ordered in a cautionary tone, palming his lighter in his hand." Let us do what we came here to do."

"Which is?" Bill reached a hand out to touch his mother, but quickly changed his mind, letting his hand fall away.

"Put her to rest," Dean said lightly, glancing at Sam who no longer stood in the doorframe, but was advancing forward in snail-like movements toward the old lady.

"H-how?" Bill's lower lip quivered.

"Burn her," Dean replied coolly, attention darting from Sam to granny then Sam again.

Bill's mouth dropped open. "She's my mother."

"Not anymore," Sam said inching closer.

"Bill, you're mom is not your mom anymore," Dean reminded. "She's a ghost. Embodying the things you stuffed. I don't think she's very happy about that. If you don't back-off and let us help you right now she's going to…"

Bill's mother snarled, the sum of all things evil and dark distorting her face.

"Son of a…Bill run!" Dean warned.

Bill dropped his rifle and turned to run, but his mother had a hold of him and snapped his neck before he ever took a step and he fell dead to the floor.

Sam lunged forward squirting lighter fluid in grandma's face, on her garden hat and down the front of her flowered dress.

She screeched, grabbing hold of Sam's neck, wrapping both hands around, and viscously squeezed hard.

"Guh," Sam choked.

"Incoming." Dean dropped to his belly and rolled. He came up to one knee right at grandma's feet. "If you were fifty years younger I might have looked up your dress," Dean joked, lighting the hem of the old woman's green dress on fire.

Grandma immediately let loose her hold on Sam, who collapsed to the floor, ducking his head and raising an arm to shield his eyes. The old gal screeched, a whirl of flames engulfing her.

Seconds later, an orange burst sent dust and ash flying up into the air, then floating to settle quietly on the floor.

"You okay?" Dean knelt before Sam, pulling his arm down and peering into Sam's eyes.

"Guess so," Sam rasped.

"Not the answer I was looking for, buddy," Dean said, eyebrows scrunching together with concern.

Sam shivered, streams of sweat rolling down his face.

"Dude, you're shaking like you've been laying on a bed of magic fingers for too long." Dean gently eased Sam forward, dabbing at a small cut above his right eyebrow with his jacket sleeve. "Grandma Moses kicked your ass."

"I'm okay, Dean." Sam's mouth muscles twitched as he got to his feet with Dean's help. "We got to get out of here now." He started gathering up their weapons, moving stiff and slow.

"You look bad." Dean shouldered the duffle bag.

"Of course I do. Just went ten rounds."

"Dude she was old."

"She had attitude." Sam staggered out of the room and up the stairs.

"Yeah, she did have that." Dean fell behind Sam.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

They'd only driven a short way down the road away from the shop, before Dean decided they needed to stop so he could recheck Sam's wound and clean the Jackalope puncture out better. He pulled in behind a billboard sign advertising a burlesque show.

Sam swallowed the two Tylenol tablets Dean handed him and leaned heavily back in the passenger seat of the Impala.

Dean continued to wash out the wound with holy water by the light of the Impala's dashboard and the blinking pink neon billboard. The Jackalope combined with grandma's meddling had caused the wound to open wider, and ooze more blood.

"Uh," Sam whimpered, instinctively trying to shrug away from Dean's menacing touch. "Man, just leave it, Dean. You're making it worse."

"Dude, sit still. Let me finish cleaning and get your shoulder wrapped back up."

"Dude, we have to get farther away before morning. Cops will be…gaw damn it, Dean." Sam went completely rigid, biting into his lower lip.

"Sorry, pal." Dean finished binding Sam's shoulder with white medical gauze he'd gotten from their first aid kit under the seat. "Had to tie that tight. Stop the bleeding."

"Like I was saying." Sam took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "It will be morning soon. Someone's going to find Bill's body and the cops will be crawling all over this place in a few hours. Gotta get moving." He cleared his scratchy throat, trying to relax the achy, feverish feel that was slowly creeping over him.

"I'm not worried about the cops, Sammy." Dean lay two fingers along the side of Sam's neck "We'll be long gone before they find Bill's body," Dean said, his face etched with worry, staring intently at Sam. "Damn it."

"What?" Sam sniffled, wiping his jacket sleeve under his runny nose.

Dean let his hand fall away. "I don't like how fast your pulse is," Dean mused more to himself.

"Adrenalin, Dean."

"Maybe." Dean pressed his palm to Sam's forehead. "You're pretty hot."

"Rrrrr," Sam cleared his throat. "Which?"

"Which what?"

"Which am I? Pretty or hot?"

"Shut up," Dean ordered seriously. "How's your shoulder feel?"

"It's nothing." Sam coughed and wiggled about. "But you can ask me how my stomach feels." He shivered, his voice growing hoarser by the minute.

"How's your stomach feel?"

"Feels…" Sam slouched further in the seat. "I don't know," he grimaced, pressing a hand over his belly.

Dean drew back. "I don't like this. Something's wrong."

"I gotta lay down." Sam groped and fussed about until he eventually got his long legs curled into a tight ball, laying his head on Dean's lap.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, one hand draped over Sam - safeguarding - the other digging in his jacket for his cell.

"Wha' doing?" Sam moaned.

"Calling Bobby."

"Good idea."

"You worse?" Dean curled the backs of his fingers against Sam's cheek.

"Hot."

"Pretty too." Dean scrolled down to Bobby's number, and hit dial. Damn it, Sammy," he whispered in frustration glancing down at Sam. Kid looked worse by the second. Damp, limp and hot, curling in on himself and moaning softly. "Whatever this is, Sam, it's hitting you hard and fast."

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

"Friggin' pick up," Dean said through clenched teeth, pulling Sam's wet hair out of his face.

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

"Nu' 'ome?" Sam slurred.

"It's a flippin' cell, Sam, he doesn't have to be …."

"This is Bobby."

Bobby," Dean yelled. "It's about damn time."

"Talk to the phone. The face ain't home." Bobby hung up.

"F..f-freezing." Sam trembled.

"Shit." Dean contorted in his seat shrugging out of his jacket.

"Get hol' him?" Sam wheezed and hacked.

"No. Yeah. He hung up on me, bro."

"He's still pissed," Sam breathed out nearly in a whisper.

"Pretty much." Dean hit redial, draping his leather over Sam and tucking it in around him best he could. "Don't you run out on me, Sammy. Don't you do it."

"Not running anywhere," Sam coughed, "Even if wanted to."

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

"Hello," Bobby answered.

"Bobby, don't hang up it's Dean."

"To the best of my recollection, I don't recall no Dean."

**Click.**

"Bobby, you stupid fool." Dean punched send again, this time setting it on speaker.

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

Bobby answered, "Joe's Crab Shack," he drawled. "We catch 'em, you scratch 'em."

"Bobby!" Dean bellowed. Sam flinched, nearly falling to the floorboards. "Easy, Sam." Dean gripped his shoulder holding him in place. 'Bobby, listen to me, man."

Bobby continued to talk in a gruff tone, ignoring Dean's plea. "Joe's not in. After the beep, think about your name. Think about why you're calling, and I'll think about returning your call, ya igit."

"Bob…"

**Click.**

Dean hit send.

"Dean, feel really sick," Sam rocked his head back and forth against Dean's thigh.

"Going to take care of you, Sam."

**Ring **

**Ring.**

Bobby answered, "Don't want none."

**Click**

"Mother fu…"

"Pay back," Sam gave a weak, wet sounding chuckle.

"This isn't funny, dude, you're scaring the hell out of me. You're sheet-white and burning with fever." Dean frantically called Bobby again.

Sam's chuckling was cut off by a bout with the shakes.

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

"Son of a bitch, Sam, don't do this to me." Dean pulled back the jacket trying to get a peek at Sam's bandage. "Fuck,' he swore under his breath. "You're bleeding again." He pressed the cell between ear and shoulder, completely distracted and barely keeping the device in place as he pushed his hand against Sam's wound.

"Guh." Sam winced.

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay."

**Ring.**

**Ring.**

"'Em fine," Sam struggled weakly.

"This is Bobby," Bobby answered, sounding much older than he was. "Way back in the day before the invention of fire and the wheel, we didn't have no fancy schmancy thing-a-ma-bobs like cell phones."

"Oh, for..." Dean juggled the phone nearly dropping it to the floorboards as he tried to keep pressure on Sam's shoulder.

Bobby continued his pissy rant, "You damn disrespectful igits just had to call and keep on callin' and callin' from a rotary dial telephone, until the poor sap got home and gave a shit to answer."

Getting a firm grip on his cell, Dean took in a deep breath and bellowed, "Bobby!" As loud as he could. "Don't, man. Don't hang up on me. Don't you dare," he screamed.

"Boy," Bobby dropped the act, "Don't you dare yell at me like that. Given you a taste of your own juice. You ever prank call me again like you did before and I'll…"

"No prank. Not yelling at you," Dean yelled. "I'm yelling for you. Bobby. We need your help. It's Sam. He's…". Dean almost dropped the cell tucking his jacket around his brother's shuddering shoulders.

"Sam?" Bobby questioned in a serious tone. "Okay. Just calm down, son. Tell me what's going on? You get the thing that was haunting Old Bill's shop?"

"Long story short, we got the crabby bitch," Dean growled stroking Sam's hair back.

Sam groaned and coughed at the same time, chills racking his body and the heat pouring off him reddened his face

"Sh, Sammy," Dean soothed. "Look, Bobby, Sam was attacked by one of Bill's stuffed pets. Wound's not that bad, but ever since…he's sick…really sick."

"What got the kid?" Bobby questioned in a cool, calm and collected tone.

"A Jacklope," Dean informed. "I know they don't exist, some sort of diseased rabbit is all they…"

"A Jacklope, boy, did you say Jackalope?" Bobby interrupted, sounding almost frantic.

"Yes, sir."

"Balls," Bobby hissed, and Dean could hear Bobby slamming things and fumbling about on the other end of the line.

"Ugn." Sam swung a hand up groping for Dean.

"Easy. Right here, little brother." Dean took Sam's hand and held it tight.

"Balls! Where'd I put that, book," Bobby's voice faded in and out.

Dean's worry amplified. "Balls, Bobby? Balls? What the hell does that mean?"

"Mean's those screwy rabbits get their meat hooks in you, you got two ways you could go," Bobby said, the sound of paper rifling, telling Dean the man was searching one of his many books.

"Two ways?" Dean glanced down at Sam who'd gotten visibly sicker. He was sweating more and gripping his stomach with both hands. Two ways. What two ways? You mean dead or alive?" Dean screeched. So far Sam was alive, but by the looks of him not for long. "Bobby what are you saying?" Dean demanded, hoping there was a third way he didn't know about.

"Boy, those things are nasty S.O.B.'s . They bite you…you get the worst case of the flu you can imagine. They stab you with their horn you…" Bobby stopped.

"You what?"

No response. Only pages flipping madly.

"You what, Bobby?"

Still nothing.

"Bobby!"

"You croak, okay, Dean."

"God," Dean whispered, staring helplessly down at his quivering brother. "Bobby it stabbed Sam in the shoulder with its horn. I cleaned the wound."

Sam lay plaint in Dean's lap, barley moving now or making a sound, sweat pouring off him to soak Dean's thighs as if the kid was boiling from the inside out.

"Don't matter none how good you cleaned the wound." There was a loud thump, sounding like the phone on the other end got dropped.

"No, no, no." Dean squeezed his eyes shut his head bumping back against the seat. "This is crazy. Crazy." He squeezed his eyes shut tighter trying to wish this whole night into a dream. Sam's weight, hot, limp and shivering against his thighs was all too real. "Damn it." Dean's eyes snapped open, temper flaring. "I'm not losing my brother over some friggin' Bug's Bunny with horns, Bobby. We have to do something. I can do something. Have to do something," Dean panicked, but all he could do was sit there and hold Sam close. Deep inside, hating himself knowing there was nothing he could do. His temper rose again. "Come on, Bobby! There has to be something, you always find something."

"Balls," Bobby's voice broke back in.

"Stop with the balls already, man, we have to help Sammy."

"Kid, I'm so sorry. I've been a damn fool …"

"No." Dean shook his head, misery washing over him as he tugged Sam closer. "No, Sam."

"Boy, pull yourself together and listen. Sam's going to be okay," Bobby snapped.

"What?" Dean snapped back.

"Got the lore ass-backward. My wrong. It's the bite that'll make you croak. Stab with the horn will only give Sam the worst case of the flu he's ever had."

"You're wrong? Ass- backward?" Dean questioned, his voice trembling.

"Your IQ drop, boy? I said, Sam's going to be okay."

"Sam's okay. Sam's okay. He's okay," Dean rambled, emotionally drained he slumped in his seat. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

Sam groaned and suddenly sat up arms pinned at his side, eyes watery peering at Dean.

"Sam, you're okay. Going to be okay," Dean's voice raised two octaves.

"Dean," Bobby called loudly through the phone. "Just get the kid back here. Plenty of rest and liquids."

Ignoring Bobby, Dean asked Sam, "Are you feeling any better?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders and swooned.

"Dean, you copy?"

"Sam's got the flu, Bobby," Dean said almost giddy as he tried to hold Sam steady.

"I know that you moron. He'll be okay."

Sam bent forward and gagged vomit to the floorboards. "Whoops," he slurred, sitting up and peered sorrowfully at Dean.

"Dude, you understand that's wrong?" Dean nearly puked himself, looking at the pile of vomit on the floorboards.

"Yes," Sam simply said as he wiped his mouth, then gagged again.

"Out. Out. Time to get out." Dean reached across Sam, desperately fumbling in the dark, seeking the door handle. "I got it." His hand slipped. "Got it." He gripped the handle tight.

"Asshats," Bobby's voice floated weakly from the phone. "What's going on now?"

"Sam's blowing chunks. I gotta go." Dean dropped the phone and swung the car door open. "It's okay, bro. I got you. "Dean held Sam by the belt as he hung half-out of the Impala and puked his guts up onto the gravel.

When Sam was done, Dean hauled him back inside and shut the door.

"Better?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Not so much," Sam moaned, flopping back against the seat, looking completely pale and miserable.

"You're going to be okay, Sam. Jackalope gave you the flu, nothing more." Dean grimaced at the heavy pungent odor drifting up from the floorboards. "Oh, man." He rolled the driver side window down all the way.

"Sick." Sam edged over to the passenger door and leaned his head against the cold glass. "Made a mess."

"Happens when you throw up in the car, bro." Dean reached back over the seat bench and grabbed an old jacket. "You can clean it later when you feel better." Dean dropped the blanket over the pile of vomit, covering the smell and the site. "Just cover up the mess for now."

"No, Dean," Sam panted and squirmed, averting his eyes down. "I made a mess that I can never cover up."

"Of?"

"Of everything." Sam tried to compress his body closer to the door. "Made a mess." Sam shivered, his head wobbling on his shoulders.

"Told you, happens when you puke, bro."

"Not what I mean, Dean." Sam tensed biting down hard on his back teeth.

Dean winced, obviously knowing what Sam meant.

Dean squinted, searching around the dark interior until he found a half-drunk bottle of water. "Drink this."

Sam shook his head, refusing to take it. "Heads exploding," Sam said in a gravelly voice, shutting his eyes a moment, but they opened back up quickly "I'm sorry," he said, holding Dean's eyes.

"Sam, don't ever be sorry. Don't you ever be!" Dean chastised. "Now drink." Dean forced the bottle into Sam's

Sam blinked at the bottle a few minutes then took a small sip, handing the water back to Dean when he was done.

"I'm telling you right now, little brother…" Dean capped the bottle an set it aside, taking Sam. "Come here." He tugged. Sam slid stiff and slow across the seat. "Listen to me good." Dean shouldered Sam against him. "Dad was forced to do a lot of things. But loving us. Being our dad. You can bet your ass he was never forced into that. You need to remember that. And you know what else you need to remember, Sam?"

Sam stared at Dean, seeming interested in knowing.

"You need to remember dad could see through all the red tape and bullshit. No matter how we acted or what we did, or where we went he knew we loved him too. Can you do that. Remember that?"

"I'll try." Sam shut his eyes, his head snuggling down on Dean's shoulder.

Dean smiled. "You going to be okay till I can get us to Bobby's?"

"How long?"

"Not too long, Sam." Dean started up the engine. "Why?"

"The sicker I sit here," Sam gulped, "The longer I get." Sam said in a croaky, fevered-confused voice.

"Dude, you mean the longer you sit here, the sicker you get," Dean corrected.

"That, too," Sam mumbled, taking a few deep breaths and drifting off.

"Yeah, that, too," Dean muttered, flipping on the radio being sure to keep the volume down low:

_Did they get you to trade you're hero's for ghosts?_

_Hot ashes for trees?_

_Hot air for a cool breeze?_

_And cold comfort for change?_

_Did you exchange_

_A walk on part in the war, For a lead role in a cage?_

_Were 're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, Year after year,_

_Running over the same old have we found_

_The same old you were here._

_How I wish, how I wish you were here._

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

EPILOGUE

Bobby stood in the doorway, chugging a beer. He wanted to ring both the boy's necks for what they'd put him through. And he would have, if he hadn't promised John years ago he'd watch out for them if anything ever happened to him.

Thus, Bobby had helped Dean haul Sam into the house. Got the kid washed, out of his sweat soaked clothes, into some comfortable dry ones and settled into bed.

Bobby had even gone as far as to clean Sam's chunks off the floorboard of the Impala and salvaged Dean's phone. The phone he'd dropped and left on speaker. The one Bobby had heard their entire conversation over.

Bobby took another swig of beer.

The room was dark save for the muted television's bluish shadows flickering around the room and across two sleeping faces.

Dean had fallen asleep sitting up against the headboard. Sam snoring lightly, spread slack across Dean's lap, safe and secure under his hand.

The bed was a mess. Rumpled blankets. A dozen balled up Kleenex, juice cups, an empty Tylenol bottle, collection of wet wash towels, crumbled crackers and a jar of Vicks.

Bobby took another swig of beer. He worried about the boys as if he was their father. Hell, as if he was their mother too. All of the time he worried. Sunrise to sunset. Day in and day out. Sam and Dean always seemed to be only one step away from hell. Slow dancing with danger. Trying to save the world, only without superman's super powers. The evil in the world never let up, but neither would Sam or Dean. John had taught them well. Had loved them well, and knew they loved him too. Dean was right. You could bet your ass on that much. Bobby would have to make that point clear before the boy's headed on their way.

Still, the things this life had cost them. The sacrifices they'd made. Their dad the most recent. Just always seemed the boys found that heap of trouble and plowed headlong into it. Life wasn't fair. But Sam and Dean took what wasn't fair and made it work.

Bobby wasn't their father, but they were his boys just the same and he was damn proud of them, even if they were igits sometimes - most times.

Sam shifted, a small whimper escaping his throat.

"Hey," Dean mumbled, never opening his eyes, holding Sam tighter. "I gottcha."

A weary smile played on Bobby's lips. "You boy's make me crazy." He took another swig of beer, and silently walked out of the room, shutting the door after him.

THE END

AN: Song used - Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here.


End file.
